


Return to you

by Cyberboredom



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberboredom/pseuds/Cyberboredom
Summary: The goddesses must have really grown tired of his puppy love, then, and took to humiliating him by making his statements of adoration literal. Perhaps he had somehow cursed himself, he had read of people who had in the past with enough raw emotion and clumsy words.Or,Jaskier wakes up and finds that Geralt is the only one who can see him, and finds he needs to rely on the man to break his curse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a proper fic in years so this feels a little daunting. If I'm missing any tags please let me know and I'll be happy to add them. 
> 
> Content warnings-  
> There is a very minor and breif occurrence of self harm at the end of the chapter  
> Jaskier frequently finds himself feeling unreal which may come off similarly to derealisation/dissociation. 
> 
> Stay safe!

There's a difference between country air and city air. The air in Novigrad is spread thin, after rain the smell of stone would creep into every nook and cranny like a pollen, though stale and dry, a reminder that the city is a place carved by man, artificial and beautiful in the way only intentional things are. Conversely, a rare encounter to be had in the streets of a city was the ripe scent of manure. Cattle shit. Step into the country and it was as if mother nature favoured that scent, perfumed herself in the waste of cows and pigs. This is something that becomes less noticeable with time, farmers raised in Velen don't spend their days scrunching their noses in disgust like travelling merchants might. Jaskier has spent his fair amount of time on farmlands and can vouch that the smell grows less problematic as days stretch.

So, when Jaskier wakes up, his first thought isn't as to why he's splayed uncomfortably across a grimy wooden floor, as if he were an abandoned toy a child had grown bored with. Nor is it in question of how blinding the morning light is, pouring heartily into the room and flickering with the silhouette of trees dancing with the wind, trees which he is certain had not been outside his window the night before. He barely even heeds attention to the soft, not unfamiliar, snore coming from the bed besides him. No, Jaskiers first thought upon waking up is-

Oh God it smells like shit. 

His joints audibly creak when he attempts to push himself up, first onto his elbows which immediately grow a dull ache against the brutally hard floor he lay on, and then up into a sit.

Waking up in unfamiliar environments isn't particularly a new experience for him, in fact, he usually takes the sight of a ceiling he doesn't recognise as the signifier of a good night. The striking issue here was that he hadn't drank a drop of alcohol the night before, and so all things considered, he should really be staring up at his own ceiling right now. Not only that, he had purposefully made the distinct decision to stay in and work on his stash of unfinished poetry, in hopes that he could perhaps weave a few together to make them feel whole, he always found patchwork pretty, afterall.

Then there was the fact that he was fully clothed, when usually in these situations he would rarely even keep the company of his undershorts. Oddly enough, he was not in his bed clothes, either. He wore one of his favourite doublets, royal blue and embroidered with intricate floral patterns using a stunning pearlescent thread that shimmered in moonlight. He hadn't worn this particular outfit for a couple of days now, usually keeping it for special occasions but recently falling to it for a performance at an inn due to a lack of clean clothes.

He swallows, throat dry and mouth filled with the taste rotten of morning, before finally catching the nerve it took to follow the sound of soft snoring to his right.

There lay Geralt of Rivia. 

What the fuck. He thought to himself, rather philosophically. What the fucking fuckidy fuck is happening.

At once, what seemed like hundreds of explanations rushed through his mind. Maybe he had simply forgotten that he had decided to go drinking, blacked out, and ran into Geralt, who made him sleep on the floor. Maybe he had amnesia, and had actually lost months of his life, likely due to him ignoring Geralt's orders to sit still and wait for him. (An unhelpful voice in the back of his head points out that amnesia isn't enough to teach him to sit still from now on). Maybe he is actually just dreaming quite vividly. Maybe he yearned so fucking hard the goddesses grew tired of watching and simply dropped him besides the white wolf. 

Once again, he thinks eloquently- fuck.

Feeling a familiar anxious nausea wash over him, he decides the best thing to do is to wake Geralt. He shifts to his knees, which complain just as thoroughly as his elbows did against the wood, and makes haste in shaking his friend maybe a tad more violently than was really necessary. 

Amber eyes pierce him in a matter of seconds, and Jaskier gets to watch as they flash from aggressive to confused. 

"Jaskier? What the fuck?"

Not the reaction he was hoping for. It's initially distracting, hearing the man's deep, gravelly voice after months of only hearing it in his dreams, so he stands entranced by the moment until his situation catches up to him. 

Moments away from choking out a sob of pure, unfiltered frustration, Jaskier stands, finally, and takes to chewing on his lip instead. Geralt's eyes are full of a question that Jaskier definitely cannot answer, and instead he more likely mirrors the man's expression perfectly, but where Jaskier is full of anxieties Geralt seems to be making due with irritation. When his bottom lip starts to feel raw, he huffs out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and says simply "Good morning Geralt, it's so comforting to have your glare on me once more."

Geralt at some point had sat up and is now rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his knuckles. He groans, sluggish, likely at how horribly bright of a morning it is, or potentially how the air smells like shit. "What are you doing here Jaskier?"

"Good question." Jaskier sits down at the edge of the bed, half hanging off it but also too distracted to care "I have a better, more important question, though, I'm sure, courteous as you are white wolf, that you'll forgive me for being greedy and requesting for your answer before mine- Where, by chance, is here exactly?" 

There's birdsong outside the window accompanying the distant cry of a merchant peddling his goods obnoxiously. In Novigrad, where he currently should be, the yells of stall owners are so much a common place that the more striking thing to Jaskier is that he can only hear one voice and not a gaggle. He notes the man's accent, how his syllables are heavy rather than loose and continuous.

When Geralt decides to stare at him dumbly rather than answer his simple question, he tries again "Geralt? I'm going to take a guess that I am not in the city currently."

"You aren't." Geralt agrees, maintaining their eye contact "Crows perch."

"Vellen?" The other nods "Right. Okay. And you don't know why I'm here, this is-" he inhales deeply through his nose when he finds hes lost the end of his sentence "Geralt, I'm going to be honest with you, this is a first for me. Travelling a vast distance overnight, completely blackout as I do, is new. And while I do love firsts I-"

"Jaskier, my medallion is vibrating."

"-do you mind I was speaking."

"You're also cursed ."

On some occasions, the bard was grateful for Geralt's bluntness. It was a selective bluntness of course, dedicated strictly to breaking bad news to others without drawing anything out unnecessarily, but it always came from a well meaning place. Jaskier had watched Geralt tell people he can't fix their problems, and by ripping off the band aid, any poisonous hope that may have built itself up to be crushed never had time to fester in the first place, pain is kept to a minimum. The witcher wasn't blunt with much at all, often he was intentionally vague and oblique, but when it came to hurting people he did it fast and with no room for questioning. 

Jaskier was cursed, he immediately believed him.

This news, however, did not seem to explain nearly as much as Geralt seemed to believe, as the man got up from his bed and started pulling on his clothes as if the two were just making pleasant small talk. 

"Okay. Cursed how?"

"My medallions fucking vibrating, it's not sending me precise details via Morse code."

"Well maybe it should! I want to know why I'm in fucking Velen you ass. You're lucky I have enough wits about me to not be outright breaking down having been transported in my sleep due to some curse."

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him "are you expecting me to thank you for not having a breakdown?"

"I'm expecting an ounce of sympathy from my dearest friend." He immediately cringes "From my old travel partner, rather."

Geralt tilts his head, pulling on thick leather gloves and flexing his fingers inside of them "Come get breakfast."

They go downstairs.

The inn quickly became recognisable outside of the bedroom, it was the only one in crows perch and seemed to be falling apart at the seams. The owner, a spinster called miss Graham, didn't seem to mind. She still greeted every customer as if she was the owner of a manor and her customers were but guests, Jaskier remembers vaguely having a long tipsy conversation with her the last time he was here about everything, nothing, and the inbetween. Even with the faults of the establishment being forgivable due to its owner being a charismatic darling; it was hard to ignore how every time he sat down the chairs would make a noise that sounded too near to breaking for comfort, some of the tables had the blunt end of nails sticking out from where they clearly did break and miss Graham had not so skillfully fixed them. Not only that, the bar was small and easily crowded even with the lack of travellers going through crows perch. On busy nights, the inn got sweltering with the mix of close bodies and a hearth miss Graham refused to kill.

And- though he noticed this less last time he was here- it most definitely smelled of shit.

He follows behind Geralt and offers a jaunty wave to miss Graham when he spots her, knitting on her arm chair which she keeps tucked behind the bar, the only good piece of furniture in the whole building. When she doesn't look up to him, he awkwardly lets his hand drop back to his side and clears his throat. "Who knew it was all clear skies in Vellen? I've been praying the rain away every night myself, even sang those rain-away playground rhymes you learn as a child, rain rain go away…"

Geralt grunts and it's easy to forget he'd been reluctantly yearning to reunite with the man for months now, prime conversationalist he is. "Storms in Novigrad?"

"Nothing but them for two weeks straight now. I love rain- you know I do Geralt, you've seen how it knocks me to sleep- but I find I love variety in weather even more." 

They approach the bar together and miss Graham finally looks up to greet Geralt with a gummy smile. She was a dainty old lady, hair gray and nest like, her skin almost pale to the point of being translucent with moles scattered across her with no rhyme or reason. Not the person Jaskier expected to see running the inn when he was here the first time, crows perch being known for it's often unruly nature, but she clearly knew how to keep order in her inn, and he had seen her refuse to shy away from telling customers to get lost.

Putting her knit work to the side- what seemed to be a mustard yellow scarf- she quickly joined the two at the bar. "Geralt love, rest well?"

Geralt looks to his hip to unclip his coin purse "I did. Thank you for the room."

"Nonsense, I couldn't bring myself to charge you for it after all those customers your Dandelion brought me last time."

A sense of pride swells in Jaskiers gut. One day Geralt won't be able to deny his bard brings him as much, if not more, good than he does trouble.

(Also. She had called him Geralt's Dandelion. While he isn't new to being referred to as the witchers property, often in much more derogatory ways, being his it the way that he is Dandelion is- it makes him catch a breath, anyway.)

"Still. Thank you. Two breakfasts please, if you wouldn't mind."

"Two?" Miss Graham repeats, looking sceptical "Oh I know you're a big lad mr witcher but, well my breakfasts are built for big lads like you already. Are you sure you'll be needing two?"

A ghost of a frown falls over Geralt's face.

Jaskier tries clearing his throat to get the old lady's attention, but he keeps her eyes steadfast on Geralt. "The other is for me, love."

Still no sign of recognition. 

There's a heavy pause between the three, uneasy in the way nobody thinks it their turn to speak. Jaskier himself is sure Miss Graham would never ignore him, they had too much of a report between them and besides, she just sang his praise. So he and Geralt wait until she decides to speak again.

"Hello? Sir Rivian?"

"Um. Yes?"

"Two breakfasts?"

Geralt Nods dumbly "One for me, the other for Jaskier."

Miss Graham's face lights up "Oh you should have mentioned he'd be in town!"

Geralt slowly places his coin on the bar "I'm surprised too. Can I have those in my room?"

"Geralt, Geralt she can't see me."

"Sure thing love."

"Geralt she can't fucking see me."

Geralt nods and starts making his way back to his room.

"What the fuck! Why can't she see me?"

**

The first thing they test is how well Jaskier can interact with the objects around him. Geralt hands him a book he found in the room's dresser, which falls heavily in the palm of Jaskier's hand, making his arm bob down. The pages feel very real as he skims through them, under Geralt's order, to the point of which he gives himself a paper cut and drops the thing. He utters a curse before sucking the cut into his mouth, looking up to see his witcher unamused. With a huff, he bends down to pick the book back up, and finds it seems to be welded to the ground.

"Looks like you need me to hand you things before you can use them."

"You're joking."

He's not joking. He picks the book up easily from where Jaskier was desperately pulling, and hands it to him. The book suddenly feels less like it's made of iron.

"Oh to be at the whims of anybody I'm at the whims of Geralt of Rivia. Whoever cursed me really had it out for me didn't they?"

"Stay focused."

Then breakfast came. 

Jaskier had to hold the plate in his lap and keep a strict hold of his cutlery once Geralt handed him them, for fear of having to pathetically ask for the witcher's assistance in continuing his meal. He's almost surprised when he can eat at all, but chooses not to question the curse and rather be grateful that he hadn't run into another shortcoming. 

They eat in silence, small talk failing the bard for the first time in what feels like years.

Afterwards, they test how far Jaskier can go without Geralt. Jaskier easily leaves the room and wanders the inn where doors didn't block his movement. It feels almost like a prank is being played on him, that any second now somebody will look him in the eye and laugh. Jaskier would laugh too, relieved and just a little bit irritated. He's able to stroll through the kitchen, usually blocked off with its door being behind a bar, and on seeing a large pot of simmering stew by the hearth he wishes Geralt were somehow there to hand him a spoon. With a sigh, he returns to the bar.

When somebody opens the door to the inn to enter, he takes that as his opportunity to squeeze himself into the open and-

Immediately a raw pain pricks him in the stomach and bloats itself, filling him quickly until he could feel the throbbing ache in even the tips of his fingers. He quickly collapses in on himself and turns to claw at the door that had since closed behind him, which refuses to budge.

"Geralt!" He yells, pain intoxicating and all consuming, it feels like it could make him pop "Fuck, GERALT!" 

And as fast as the pain was there, it was gone. Geralt looked down at him, where he had begun cradling himself and rocking, and he looked back with a heavy, long blink. 

"What?" 

He lets himself uncoil cautiously "It-.. I don't think I can leave the building you're in." 

"Why?"

"It was fucking agony."

He's said similar things in ballads, and when releasing this his cheeks almost go pink. The goddesses must have really grown tired of his puppy love, then, and took to humiliating him by making his statements of adoration literal. Perhaps he had somehow cursed himself, he had read of people who had in the past with enough raw emotion and clumsy words. 

"Oh." Says Geralt.

Somebody across the street is staring at the witcher, who looks back with a steady gaze before offering Jaskier his hand to help stand, which he takes quickly. "Geralt you're going to look like you've lost even more of your already depleted set of marbles."

Geralt grunts, they return to the room together, Jaskier straightening his clothes as they do.

"So we've learned you are only visible to me, only able to take hold of anything I personally hand to you, and that you can't leave the building I'm in. We should still test how far you can go outdoors-"

"I'm not willingly putting myself through that pain again you bastard,"

"-but, if you would have let me finish, we can leave that for now." Geralt exhales, Jaskier wonders sometimes if it physically pains him to talk for so long to anybody other than his horse.

Jaskier pouts and sits down on the bed, back against its rickety headboard which would have usually creaked under his weight, but instead feels just as sturdy as it would a wall. The mattress under him feels significantly more stiff than it should, too, given his weight is not allowed to press into it. When Geralt joins him sitting on the bed, he feels the mattress immediately soften and almost barks out a deranged laugh at that. To be utterly at the will of Geralt of Rivia. 

It's true he had been wanting to see Geralt badly for quite a while now, that the man often turned up unannounced in his thought and by association, his writings. If that want was anything more than his heart, too fragile to have not broken like porcelain under his ribs, betraying him with the irrationality of a poet, he would have himself gone to find Geralt like he had done in the past. Easy to explain as it were, Geralt is usually satisfied by a white lie about Jaskier's need for inspiration, when really the bard rarely runs out of words to scrawl against paper. 

Yet, no, he didn't do that. He didn't pack his bags and leave his place in Novigrad- a not too shabby house he had charmed a pretty noble into giving him the key to- to chase after the white wolf, and that was a conscious choice. After last time, he promised himself their next meeting would be one where Geralt found him, not baring to consider that Geralt never would. Here the man was, in Crows Perch, where he would likely not be if it didn't come with a contract. Jaskier could not fool himself into thinking perhaps Geralt was on his way to find him. As dense as the witcher sometimes liked to come off when it came to people, he would have known where to look for Jaskier. He wasn't looking for Jaskier, he wasn't happy that Jaskier had fallen into his lap like this.

A part of him almost wants to apologise, as if he had willingly done this. Despite what many think, Jaskier knows when he is not wanted somewhere. 

The merchant outside is still yelling for people to buy his wares.

"Who's bad side have you gotten on lately?" Geralt asks him, like he would ask somebody who holds a job for him, like Jaskier had heard him ask in the past. To strangers, to people who were means to a coin.

It's becoming hard not to grow a little maudlin, but he ignores the ache in his chest "Nobodies. I've been quite the good boy actually."

"Good boys don't have curses put on them."

"Kinky bastard aren't you." The lack of humour in his voice shines through, making him wince, Geralt probably didn't pick up on it "I have been, though. Cooped up writing most of the time. I've not bedded a married woman- married person- in… lord. Months? Must be getting old.' 

"No unsavory interactions in the last week?"

"None I can think of, no, none you wouldn't describe as heckling anyway. There's always somebody who has something to say about, well, this." He gestures broadly to himself "but if I haven't been cursed in the past for just existing I don't see why I would be now. You know how it is Geralt, something we have in common is that people like to throw wasting food at us."

"Well this curse is obviously linked to me in some way. Have you had any interactions regarding me?"

More than he should have. "Eh. Let me think." He sings about Geralt at least once every night, people don't let him get away with dropping toss a coin from his set. He often gets nostalgic when tipsy, bothers bar tenders with stories of his travels that make him smile and so many of those mean talking of Geralt. Three weeks ago he had run into Yennefer and the two had quite the surprisingly civil bitch about Geralt. "Well-" then there was how he would get lost in his wanting and complain about it to Zoltan, who would barely listen and occasionally roll his eyes in a way Jaksier was obviously meant to catch. A lady he had been with had asked him of the broach he wore, one that Geralt had gifted him for his birthday years back, and he had gotten a little weepy. His neighbor's had to listen to him practice his songs on the daily and so many of those are full of him. "Oh. I quite embarrassingly mistook some tall bloke for you a month ago, maybe it insulted him deeply."

"That's all?" A frown had been sitting on Geralt's face since he had woken, though now it somehow manages to deepen. Jaskier briefly wonders if the man's jokes about the exfoliating nature of monster guts weren't in jest at all, how else would anybody explain how the man isn't wrinkled with his constant scowl?

"Suppose my hand has been forced a few occasions and I've had to play toss a coin for the.. well, coin it gets me." He looks out of the window "Why are you assuming this is all about you anyway?"

"You're quite literally bound to me, Jaskier. That doesn't happen for no reason."

"Well maybe a mage got completely pissed up one night and wanted to play a practical joke. I'm sure when I wake up tomorrow I'll be back in Novigrad and you won't need to suffer the burden of my presence for more than a day."

"Curses need to be broken, they don't fade."

He almost considers bringing up his theory from before, that he had cursed himself. 

'Agony is not being by your side,

We are bound and beautiful like a bouquet, my love,

Our fickleness will wash away with the tide. Sea foam. '

He had already lost enough of his pride today, though. And it wasn't as if he had written that about Geralt.

"We'll go to see Yennefer. I need to finish my contract first."

"Right."

**

His contract was over quickly. 

There had been a water hag and drowners who took nest in a pond that was besides what was usually a frequent road for travellers. The hag had apparently, from the ever so detailed explanation of the contract Geralt gave Jaksier, been throwing mud into the eyes of horseback riders who promptly fell off their mount only to be dragged into the murky water of the pond by the drowners. This had happened enough times now that the drowners had become plentiful enough that their last prey had been not only one person, but instead a couple and their carriage driver.

As Geralt fought, Jaskier looked over the carriage thoughtfully, still by the roadside as those who would usually be in charge of collecting such a thing feared becoming the next victim of what could only be described as a colony of drowners. Roach stood by the structure, nosing at a patch of grass, and Jaskier smiled at himself imagining what a terrible carriage horse she would be. 

He was yet to decide if he thought Roach could see him or not. It would be easier years back, when the mare would kick up a fuss when he so much as brushed up against her, but nowadays she would greet him with an apathy Jaskier took to be fondness. Or at least acceptance that he was there to stay. He pat her back lovingly and she responded with a grunt which may or may not have been coincidental. 

Behind him were the familiar sounds of thrashing which always came with drowner contracts. The monsters at this point were so much a commonplace that they bored Jaskier, Geralt often just happening on a group with his less traditional paths and having to rid them without a coin reward at the end. He leaves Roaches side to wander closer than he would usually be allowed, a useless sense of self preservation still holding him a little further back than he would like. Geralt doesn't seem to pick up on his presence as he usually would; knocking one of the creatures down with a kick, holding it down by stepping on its chest and plunging his silver sword into its throat as it clung onto his leg.

He cringed, still a little touchy with neck related injuries after the djinn incident. 

Last drowner dealt with, Geralt pulls back the sword with a guttural, wet noise before returning it to its place on his back. He almost stumbles back when stepping off the things chest, a familiar look of exertion over his face that the man usually gets with larger monsters. 

Jaskier offers a lopsided, understanding smile "Thought you'd never get them all down. Feels like I'm standing in a bloody drowner battle field." He glances around at the remains of the monsters to drive home his point, getting a grunt in response "Are you hurt at all?" 

Geralt moves towards the dirt path, away from the carnage, and props himself tiredly against the overturned carriage. The bard follows his lead, painfully patient for his nature, and watches the witcher pull at his leather glove only for the grip to fail him in its wetness. 

"Let me." Jaskier asks, and in return gets an arm thrust in his direction. The glove slides off the man's hand with ease, revealing a gash on the outside of his arm which would be deep enough to worry about on an ordinary man. Even with Geralt's bizarre ability to heal, the cut needed treating if not only to help with the pain, but to insure it didn't heal funny like his leg had done before the two had even met. "A few new scars here Geralt, you should probably invest in better gloves," he notes, pressing the cut closed by pinching the skin so that the blood loss was less river-like.

The witcher was quiet at the best of times, but he often got completely mute after giving his all in a fight. It was difficult to remain at odds with the man when he was in such a hurt place.

"You need to pass me the kit, I can't get it myself. Can you do that for me?" Another tired grunt, Geralt reaches into Roaches saddle bag, lethargic as he does, and pulls out what's needed to stitch him up. Jaskier takes a needle and holds it out so that the other can cast igni and ensure the thing is sterilised. "Thank you. I'll be quick."

He sings softly as he stitches, darning Geralt's skin back together with a precision he had learned on their travels together. When he was younger he felt awkward doing this, the needle clumsy in his hand as he fretted over hurting the other any more than he already was. Now, it's done with before he can even finish his song, but he doesn't stop singing until he's applied the salve and bandaged his arm.

"There. You should ask for more pay, you know, that was near twice the amount of drowners you said was on the bulletin. Of course I would do it for you but, well you're the only one who can hear me."

Geralt swallows thickly, and finally speaks, voice more hoarse than usual "Thanks, Jaskier." 

If Jaskier didn't know he had an overactive imagination, he would say he saw remorse in Geralt's eyes.

"You're welcome. Let's get you on Roach hm?"

**

Geralt seems to already have an idea where to find Yennefer, which is useful as Jaskier is very quickly growing tired of not being seen. It bugs Jaskier that his friend seems to know the whereabouts of a woman just as fleeting in her location as the two of them, but he tries to keep that line of brooding tucked away somewhere safe in his belly. He and the sorceress, afterall, did attempt to come to a vague outline of an understanding in their last meeting, and while most of their bonding was done while he was too intoxicated to remember it, he does want to keep up the civil state they met. As people who accompany Geralt, the two found that they have stumbled into similar states, and to find resentment in that as they did, as Jaskier still does when he lets himself go, was unadulterated pettiness. Jaskiers not above unadulterated pettiness, but he saw that Yennefer actually made an effort to look him in the eye, which made him just a little soft for her.

He does remember one thing of their talk though, their big difference, their predicament that bred jealousy. Jaskier has known Geralt for years, he has worked for his place- at least, what was his place until months past- by the man's side and has thoroughly earned his trust and friendship. (Yennefer insisted he was being insecure when he said the trust and friendship must have been all in his head, and he had rightfully rebutted that he had not been insecure since he waved goodbye to his acne phase at 14). Inverting him was Yennefer, the woman who slipped into Geralt's life as if she had always been there, caught his affections, physical and verbal, readily and did so within days. Apparently it bothered her how superficial it felt to be given that freely, especially from Geralt of all people. Apparently it felt like she was nothing more to him than she was to the other men who treated her so.

He had wanted to patronise her for complaining about how good she had it, but he understood. Men often went lengths to get what they wanted, men like Jaskier and men much worse, and if that meant forging the appearance of love- 

His throat went dry thinking about it.

It had made his stance on Yennefer odd. When he heard they were to find her- Geralt had called her the best magic user he knew- his first instinct was to roll his eyes and accuse the man of using his misfortune to get laid. He had even gone as far as to half jokingly suggest she had made the curse herself when Geralt had doubled down saying she was also an expert on curses.

At the same time though, as he accused Geralt of being shallow as he has done in the past, then not meaning it, a part of him was suspicious on her behalf. He knew out of the two of them, Jaskier was the one more likely to- regretfully- be so thoughtless with a fling, though perhaps not a reoccurring one. He also knew if Geralt's affections to Yennefer held no ground in reality then he wouldn't need to chew his lip raw when made to live through them. He knew Geralt at least cared for her, but he seemed unable to convince his stomach that suddenly.

His nanny used to say he was empathetic as a sunflower, turning to another when it cannot find the sun. 

Oh well. Mixed confusing feelings were old friends to Jaskier. He was having plenty about Geralt himself.

It takes three days for them to reach her. During those three days Jaskier found that he was grieving for multiple things. One, his lute, which must still be tucked neatly away in its case propped by his bedroom door in Novigrad where he liked to leave it. With no ounce of irony, Jaskier, if asked, could say proudly that he has not been this far away from his lute since- well, since getting it. It felt wrong not having the strings to pluck at idly to break the trap of thinking in circles, the lack of its weight on his back had him frequently questioning if he was leaving something behind. Strangely, he found that his fingers still sometimes burned faintly like they would after playing all night.

Two, attention. Eyes had become his safety blanket. There was a nakedness to not being looked at while mingling in a crowd which very really rivalled the chill of washing in the outdoors for him. To make it worse, when they stayed the night at an inn at a crossroads on the second night, there was a bard playing there. A bard singing his songs. A bard who had the gaul to gesture over to Geralt and proclaim 'A ballad for the white wolf!' before drifting off into toss a coin. Not only that, the fucker got a smile out of him, when all Jaskier had ever got for that song was grunts and complaints. The audacity sent Jaskier storming to their room only to remember he needed the other to hold the door open, leaving him sitting by the door like a patient pup. 

Three, touch. 

Geralt never touches him. Not intentionally.

Jaskier had developed ways over the years to share contact with the man, of course, in his broken hope. Little ways, like walking a little too closely so that Geralt would accidentally brush up against him. Offering to tend to wounds so shallow and inconsequential the man could have simply licked them and gone about his day. Insisting on bold occasions to share a bed to save gold- he did that one rarely, only when the day had been particularly dismal and he needed Geralt's warmth, his weight, smell, soft breaths, to keep him grounded. He feared if he asked too much the man would start declining, or catch onto his schemes, but he hadn't done yet, even with the occasional frown and glance to their bloated coin purse. 

Usually he wouldn't be living off Geralt's touch alone. Even with the two sharing a bed at night- because even Geralt doesn't hate him enough to force him onto the floor- back pressed against back stubbornly, his skin itched with absence. He found himself curling into himself and hugging his own waist just to remind himself he was real, solid. He felt amorphous. 

There were times when he caught the other man looking at him with furrowed brows almost like he didn't believe Jaskier was anything more than an hallucination, touching his humming medallion as he did.

It was fine though, and wasn't going to last forever.

Eventually they come across a cottage on a road Jaskier had somehow never been down and Geralt announces that they're there. Compared to the towering building the two had met Yennefer in, this was painfully humble and not at all what he had been expecting. Where Jaskier foresaw a dining room of lavish, hand crafted furniture sitting under a chandelier, he was instead greeted with wall ivy and the bed of moss it decorated. The door actively bulges inwards as Geralt knocks on it, rattles, barely kept on its hinges, and Jaskier for a moment is convinced his friend is playing a practical joke before he hears Yennefer's distinct voice yell "who is it?" Only to hurry to the door hearing it was her white wolf.

Fucking Vellen, what it made of people. 

The two smile at each other for a moment instead of saying hello like decent, normal folk. It seems briefly as if they were considering pouncing on each other, Jaskier would feel the need to avert his eyes if he hadn't already seen the two at it in the past. Thankfully, they refrain when the sorceress's eyes fall to Geralt's thrumming medallion and she sighs.

"Here I thought your company was finally non conditional."

"Shit boyfriend you are, Geralt." Jaskier comments rocking on the heels of his feet.

Shooting a glare Jaskiers way briefly enough that Yennefer doesn't question it, Geralt reaches forward to push a strand of hair behind her ear "I was planning on stopping by regardless. This simply.. sped things up."

"I knew it! God we aren't even here for me are we?" Jaskier gesticulated despite the lack of eyes on him "Yennefers the best curse breaker I know, he says, already imagining bedding her."

Yennefer, unsurprisingly, doesn't wait for the man she can't see to stop talking before responding herself "Well do come in. It's hardly a palace but it's only temporary." She steps to the side to make way for Geralt, who before walking in waits for Jaskier to be close enough that the pain won't trigger while crossing the threshold. 

Inside the cottage is the most stereotypical witch abode that Jaskier has had the chance to witness. It's dimly lit and decorated to chase away any light that may want to find its way inside. Any fabric in the room, such as the curtains or the blanket thrown over the couch, is either a deep rich plum or burgundy. Scattered around are candles, making the room feel cosy but hardly helping in terms of eyesight. 

It's obscenely cluttered in a way that rivaled the bards own mess making. Books stacked upon each other so that the slightest knock may tip them, all despite there being a barren bookshelf just meters away, as if the sorceress was intentionally avoiding its use out of some sort of spite. Glass bottles embellish the desk in the room, which sat across from the entrance and below a window left ajar. Jaskier glances over them and wonders to himself how Yennefer would even begin to know what was in each of them without labels. Some of the bottles lie empty, and among them a few are knocked over and uncorked. 

"Be quick with it then. Who cursed you?" He hears Yennefer ask behind him as she closes, and locks, the door. Usually being locked in would bother him, but even if she had left it there would be no way for him to slip though regardless. Not that he would risk the pain. 

"It's not my curse." Geralt sits down on the couch beside a crate that looked to be full of even more jars "At least, not to my knowledge. And I don't know who cast it."

"If it's not you who's cursed then why is your medallion humming so incessantly?" She counters, leaning against a wooden pillar and folding her arms "Are you carrying a cursed object?"

"Afraid it's much more complicated than that. Surprised you haven't sensed an extra presence, if I'm honest."

Then, after blinking at the man's statement, Yennefer looks around meticulously before her eyes fall in the general direction of Jaskier. He's almost already forgotten what being looked at feels like. "You would allow another into my home without warning me?" Her tone is accusatory but ultimately harmless. Jaskier swallows hard, he hates feeling like such a non-threat sometimes. 

"I would have, but it's Jaskier. Was afraid you wouldn't have let him in if you knew."

"Oh please Geralt, Jaskier and I have agreed to be civil from now on." There's almost a smirk gracing her lips, which are stained the colour of wine.

"Are you now? When did this happen?

"Three weeks back. He didn't mention it?"

"He didn't." Geralt huffs and turns his gaze to the bard "Damn it Jaskier. I asked you if you had done anything which could have linked back to me."

Jaskier frowns, leaning back to perch himself onto the desk "You're assuming we talked about you."

"There's no way you didn't mention me."

There wasn't, he was right, it would have been distinctly odd if Yennefer hadn't asked why he wasn't travelling with the witcher and even more odd for Jaskier not to use that as an excuse to bitch. Still, the fact that he was so sure bothered him, and what bothered him more was that this is the closest the man had been to acknowledging the two had parted on bad terms at all. 

Yennefer looks vaguely amused, eyes locked in his direction yet unable to settle on his face. 

"I think you'll find I have other things to talk about other than you." 

"If you can't be fucking honest with me I cant break the damn curse you managed to get put on you."

"I told you anything that could be relevant-"

"Hate to break up your lovers quarrel," Yennefer interrupts, and Jaskier feels a betrayal of heat in his cheeks "But I would appreciate a bit more of an explanation Geralt. Jaskier is here, I can't see him, you can."

"You summed it up pretty well yourself. Expect he's also physically bound to me, can't go too far without being in intense pain."

"Bindings are tricky." She moves over to the pile of books and somehow manages to dislodge one without them all falling, as if she had done so before many times "Especially given his body isn't here."

"His body isn't here? Could it not be that it's just been made… invisible?"

"Could be, but I would have instantly picked up on his presence that way." She quickly dismisses, flicking through the book's pages "I'd be willing to bet it's just a fragment of his conscience that's been bound to you. The more.. lucid part of it."

Suddenly Jaskiers mouth is dry "Then what the fuck is my body doing?"

Geralt helpfully relays his question. 

"It probably lies dreaming. Sleeping beauty. Don't worry, if it were to be harmed your Jaskier would feel it."

That doesn't sooth his worries, but he appreciates the attempt. 

Dress trailing her, Yennefer moves to hand the open book over to Geralt, sitting on the arm of the couch to peer over his shoulder "Here. Binding of the soul the prissy fucks at Aritusa call it, but if I'm honestly I'm not sure I believe souls are real. I suppose it is rather like Jaskier has managed to haunt you without yet dying, which is… very him." She crosses her legs and points to something in the book, Geralt following her with his eyes "Requires an object that has ties to both of the subjects, any idea what that could be?"

Geralt looks up at Jaskier, who shrugs pathetically "Does it have to be an object? Maybe somebody wrote down toss a coin and used that."

"Could it have been a song Yen?"

"No," she looks apologetic, "I'm sure you'll work it out. Regardless, to break it, you'll need to reunite-" a sigh "his 'soul' with said object while in the company of his physical form."

"Off to Novigrad then." Jaskier smiles and brings his hands together in a single clap so that somebody in the room seems to have an ounce of hope "Maybe it's my lute."

"I have no connection to your lute Jaskier."

"If that helps you sleep at night darling. Lord knows you need the help."

"Are you staying the night?" Yennefer asks, and Jaskier Bites his tongue feeling as if he had just jinxed himself. 

It's funny how often Jaskier hates how bad Geralt is at picking up emotions, and how often he thanks the stars for it. He would have been done for years ago if Geralt knew how to read his looks of disdain, and more hideously, jealously.

"If you don't mind." 

He wonders if his body can feel the way his stomach turns. 

For a while the two catch up pleasantly, leaving Jaskier to watch the fluttering tree branches outside of the window and try to make his ugly parts pretty through composing under his breath. A couple of times he sees Yennefer glance back in his direction as if she had forgotten he was there in their conversation, and he forgives her, because that's more than Geralt offered him and he could see him. 

Eventually, when the sky darkens with streaks of red through the navy, the two decide to retire to her room. Geralt asks if he can move the crate off the couch and hands Jaskier the blanket before he goes, it almost feels thoughtful. Before the door shuts behind them, he sees another apologetic look on Yen's face, and wishes he could tell her that it's okay, he would do the same if he could. 

The walls may as well be none existent.

Jaskier pushes his hand through the open window and let's it ache


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get confusing and Jaskier has a lot of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all for your kudos and comments on the last chapter, currently trying to convince myself this fic isnt terrible to get through the last hurdle and every little helps. 
> 
> Any spelling mistakes I'll correct once the fic is complete, I dont have a beta other than spell check unfortunately. 
> 
> Full disclosure, this fic was originally intended as a one shot so try to forgive any off pacing due to chapter breaks. 
> 
> As for content warnings in this chapter, theres descriptions of a panicking character, and Jaskier being Jaskier gets a little horny now and then. As always let me know if theres anything I should add here, thanks.

Routine had never been Jaskiers forte, infact, if he was water then routine would be oil. There was a grayscale in life that washed over whenever he woke up at the same time of day consecutively, when he played in the same inn for too long, when he bedded the same lover too frequently. Days went by too fast when nothing made them stand out, it became hard to cling on to moments like he wished to and sculpt them with his voice.

They left Yennefer's cottage at mid day, and Jaskier sulked.

He hated that he couldn't change clothes like this, feared that his favourite outfit was being ruined, even considered stripping and walking at Geralts side nude for some fucking variety. 

Still, it was a step up from what the last few months had clumped into. It was awful that he had to return to Novigrad after finally, finally being able to leave. Of course he could have left whenever he liked, but for once in his life he had wanted to be findable.

In the meantime, he made the most of the fresh sights around him, and sang even louder to make up for his lack of lute. 

**

His last near death experience was months ago, it had been what caused their last argument and made Geralt tell him to leave in a way he finally listened to.

"Would you have come to get me?" he whispers one night, as they lie too closely in the only bed roll they had between them. 

The witcher is half asleep and doesn't shift at the question. "No."

It had been the answer he was expecting, but he still became restless upon hearing it, fidgeting with a bit of lace on his shirt "Not even a visit?" 

"You get enticed too easily."

"I know, but-" 

"I thought we had discussed this. You being with me puts you at risk."

"Then maybe we shouldn't break this curse at all. Monsters can't reach me like this."

His words hang in the air.

The fire is collapsing in on itself, crackling angrily besides where they lay. 

Maybe he had cursed himself. He didn't truly understand what made a curse different from a blessing, why there had to be a difference. What happened when the two began to mingle in a disgusting, demented act of love. Everything he was screamed in his veins and leaked out of him anyway it could, his voice, his touch, his tears, and coated everything around him with a grime which looked almost golden in daylight. Maybe he had cursed himself the day he finally took Geralt's words for what they were and left, and maybe he blessed himself to return. Or maybe it was the other way around. 

When Geralt finally broke the silence, which had grown humid and thick, it was almost timid "You don't mean that, Jaskier." 

He lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding "No, I don't. But it would be nice if I did, don't you think?" Geralt turns his face away "In a poetic way, I mean. I know you don't like to be all consuming. In Fact, you were happy to stay the man brooding in the corner weren't you?... but I want so much more for you. Perhaps the natural step is to meet each other halfway." 

"Half way is never enough for you."

"Not with things so little. But you're not little. Halfway is more than enough with you."

Geralt shifts and Grunts when he catches his bad leg funny. Jaskier presses himself against the man's back but doesn't dare sling an arm around his waist.

"Would you have wanted to find me, even if you didn't intend to?"

"Yes."

"I think you would have come eventually."

"Probably. "

"Goodnight Geralt. thank you for talking with me."

"Goodnight Jaskier."

**

He wakes up cold with morning chill and the absence of Geralt, who has shifted to sit up and sharpen his sword. Usually, the witcher would do this while waiting for their breakfast to cook over the fire, but if he were to remove his contact from their bedroll it would leave Jaskier potentially trapped under it. 

For a moment, he watches the other without speaking. He pays dear attention to how the man's jaw is locked in concentration, how, from his angle, he can only see specks of the yellow he adores in the man's eyes. His movement is seasoned with experience, precise and easy, and suddenly Jaskier understands why people like watching his hands on his lute so much. He wants Geralt to touch him with the same ease, to know his body well so he could glide easily over it and find the spot he needs in seconds. It takes an edge off the chill.

There's no way Geralt doesn't know Jaskier is awake, he can always tell, something to do with the man's heart rate. God, he hates that the witcher can hear his fucking heart rate, hates that he can smell his fear and anger and- well, he's never asked, but hes certain Geralt can sense arousal too. It's not only exposing, but more than that, it's annoying. Surely the man should have picked up by now how the bard's heart beats like a hummingbird's wings when they get too close.

Maybe he just doesn't want to mention it. 

"Morning." Geralt eventually offers, not looking in his direction.

Jaskier clears his throat and pulls the blanket tighter around him "Yes. Morning." He bites the inside of his cheek for a moment "Not like you to let me sleep. Don't feel like looking me in the eye after our heart to heart? That's it?"

Like it had been a dare, the witcher then cranes his head down to look at Jaskier and steal eye contact, pulling an embarrassing gasp out of the other "No." He returns to his work "Couldn't sleep."

"Oh." Jaskier breaths out "Oh, Geralt, you should have woken me up. You know I much prefer keeping you company than learning about your nightmares when I wake up i- well I suppose you don't have to if you don't want my company, now that I think about it, but even if it was just singing you a lullaby or-"

"Jaskier.'

"Sorry."

He had got a lot more self conscious since he had been told to leave.

Of course, that hadn't been the first time Geralt had told him to get lost. In Fact it was almost commonplace. Regardless, these days when he said it and it almost sounded sarcastic, like it was an inside joke between them, like a child pretending they didn't want to take a gift to seem not-greedy. Often it would make him smile. 

It wasn't like that the last time. It was spat over the corpse of a katakan as Jaskier eyed a deep gash on the man's face, itching to help stop the bleeding. 

Now he can't help but wonder if he made up Geralt's contentment with his presence up.

Now, the witcher sighs and returns the sword to its sheath that lay beside him. "You walked a lot yesterday, I wanted you to rest up so we could be in the next town by lunch."

"Right. Well. I would have preferred calming your nerves to a night at an inn." 

"And I prefer one sleepless night to watching you shiver in your sleep two nights in a row."

Oh. 

Jaskier drops it and let's himself feel wanted for a moment, it had been months since he had. He loved Geralt, he loved how he was so selfless and self sacrificing, how he swore he wouldn't get involved in other people's matters but did anyway, because he wanted people to not get hurt. He loved how big the man was, yet how small he would sometimes let himself become around Jaskier. He hope's with every inch of his being that Geralt will apologise for casting him away and they can go back to normal.

Geralt let's him lie until the colours of the sunrise give way completely to the pale blue, then he's ushered to eat a bowl of runny porridge Geralt knocks up that hardly had time to completely warm over the campfire. 

They're on the road all day from then on, and Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit he's thankful he was left to sleep as he was, as much as it aches to know the other was alone and frightened. By midday, his legs are shaking with exhaustion and he has to hold onto a strap on Roaches saddle bags to keep going. Geralt offers him a concerned look but seems content when Jaskier chooses to ramble about Novigrad gossip instead of whining. 

They do make it to the next town and Jaskier collapses onto a chair with such dead weight that it would have snapped if he possessed his physical form. He idly listens to Geralt talk to the innkeeper as he massages his calves.

"Room for one night. And a bath."

The innkeep, a man that just barely fell below Geralt's height and wore rags rather than clothes, looks him up and down with a scowl "Hundred coin lad." 

"Ex-fucking-scuse me?" Jaskier shouts, because he can, only Geralt can hear him."A hundred! We've had two rooms in bloody oxenfurt for that- no no Geralt you cant let him fuck you over like that."

When they travel together, Jaskier takes care of the innkeeper. Partly because of how it comes naturally after asking to play in the establishment, but more so because he just doesn't want to make Geralt talk to anybody he doesn't have to, especially when they might hate him for being a witcher. 

He half limps over to Geralt, who grunts.

"Now you're going to repeat after me." He clears his throat dramatically "You look like a well meaning bloke, and I'm sure you've heard stories about my kind which put you off letting me stay here. I assure you I plan on nothing but sleep and will be gone as soon as the day rises. May I perhaps have the room and bath for… forty?"

Begrudgingly, Geralt does what he's told, if in a distinctly less sing-song manner than Jaskier had. He does, however, say seventy rather than forty.

"Geralt no! You're meant to go below so you can sound charitable when he suggests sixty or whatever and you agree."

".... fifty. For the room." Geralt corrects.

The inns nicer than the one in crows perch, the tables and chairs look significantly less like they're going to fall apart with a strong gust of wind, but that isn't saying much, he still sees a grim green climbing up the legs of one chair nearer to the door. The bar itself, which the keeper currently leant against, was a clear centerpiece, a trick to make travellers see it and think they're in quality accommodation. It was a well polished birch, bevels carved into the side along with decorative swirls much more suited for a nobels decor than an inn in Velen. 

Jaskier was a traveller, troubadour, but he wasn't about to let smoke and mirrors trick him out of coin. Trick Geralt out of coin. If the keeper could see Jaskier- see his clearly expensive doublet which surely took longer to dye, embroiderer and tailor to size than it had taken this man to furnish his inn- he wouldn't have been bothered with a price above forty. Not many people like to appreciate the bards intelligence, and even less want to admit how his Nobel upbringing sparred with adult life on the road led to a man rounded out by experience. They're still weary of it though. Jaskier would have tipped the man ten coins. He's glad he didn't get the chance to be charitable. 

One fucking hundred. 

The con artist of a man huffs, his cheeks ballooning as they do, and Jaskier rolls his eyes so hard he hopes he can sense it in the air. "Fifty is half of what I told you."

"Fifty is over what a human would pay here."

Geralt shifts his weight and doesn't speak. 

"You need to say that darling, trust me. You're good at swords, I'm good at speaking."

Then, after swallowing hard, he says what he's told word for word, sounding mighty outside of his comfort zone.

There's a patter as the man drums his fingers over the bar, polished so obsessively that his fingers have reflections. "One night?"

"That's a promise." Geralt agrees, before adding "I'll make it sixty for an ale."

"Fine. You're getting the smallest bedroom though." He reaches under the bar and his hand returns clutching keys which he throws towards Geralt, who catches without looking.

Jaskier scowls "As if you would have given otherwise. Prick."

After paying, the two bee line to the room to wait for the bath. The room looks almost identical to the one in crows perch, except this one didn't come with a doting spinster to look after Geralt. 

A quick igni is enough to awaken the shallow fireplace built into the wall as an afterthought, and with it comes a flickering glow that warms Jaskier before he can actually feel it. He sits by it, kicking his shoes off eagerly and inspecting his feet for sores. It was just his luck that even without a body he could get hurt, and supposes that must be one reason this is a curse, the caster didn't want the experience to carry blessings. There's a few places around his heel and ankle where skin is starting to peel away, but he has had much worse on his journeys, especially when being made to speed walk besides Roach constantly. 

His thighs certainly thanked him for it, at least. 

When the help comes in to bring the bath he doesn't bother craning his head over to look, he didn't want to know if he was missing out on the chance to bed an angel after all. Still, her words sounded like silk when she spoke to Geralt and that was enough to make his stomach turn with a want. 

It's not as if he can't be celibate, its more that he doesn't like to torture himself, and this had been close to the longest hes had to go without even the opportunity of sex in years. He groans quietly, not unlike Geralt's preferred method of communication, and waits for her to leave. 

"I feel like I'm saving myself for Melitele." He says once she does, and hears Geralt chuckle quietly. 

"As if she'd want you."

Jaskier lets out a camp offended gasp, looking over his shoulder to see the other pulling at one of the leather straps on his armour. "If I of all people took a vow of chastity for her I would no doubt become one of her favourite followers. Goddesses can tell what takes effort, wouldn't be impressed if somebody with a libido a fraction of mine swore off sex." 

"Probably wouldn't appreciate much if said follower already had two lifetimes of sexual exploits under his belt, either.

"Well that's us both fucked then."

Geralt hums, shrugging out of his armour which lands loudly on the floor, the metal fasteners rattling. 

Jaskier hasn't actually let Himself look yet. All in all, they have been travelling together again for a week and a half now, during which he had plenty of time to ogle the man like he used to do unabashedly, but he hadn't until now. it was one thing doing that to a friend who rolled his eyes when noticing, and another to do it to a man who never liked him. 

After last night, he allows himself to consider that all those weeks ago Yennefer had been right, that Jaskier had grown insecure about his place in Geralt's life. Maybe he and Geralt aren't the best friends he thought they were once upon a time, but they were at least one step above acquaintance. After months of thinking he was the worst thing to happen to Geralt, more than acquainted was a place he was happy to be. Geralt would have visited him in Novigrad eventually. 

So, he lets himself look, partly because he was already stirring, and partly out of clinical curiosity. He had already seen the few new marks scattering Geralt's arms due to his shitty gloves, and not surprisingly there were a couple of fresh ones over his chest. One sat draped over his collarbone, and another dangerously close to his navel. He frowns seeing them, not because they exist, that was an unavoidable hazard of his work, but because Jaskier hadn't been there to take care of them.

"Religious?" Geralt asks, and Jaskier realises he's being watched while taking in the view. 

"Me? No. Family is though. My aunts a devout follower. Swore silence and clearly donated the rest of her words to me."

"Ah." Geralt peels off his pants, his skin sticking slightly to the leather as he does, and Jaskier very much appreciated his thighs "Thought you lived your life too godless to be religious."

"I'm flattered."

"Are you wanting a bath too? It'll warm you up." 

"Oh God yes."

Geralt hums and let's himself sink into the bath while Jaskier stands and strips himself much faster than Geralt had, smoothing his hand down the soft skin of his own stomach to sooth the goose pimples that pop up. He's never really felt awkward about being naked, enough people had seen him that way for him to really care. 

When he was younger, more at the whim of his hormones, he had been a little more hesitant to bath with Geralt, for the risk of a badly hidden erection looking the man in the eye. It still excited him a little, the bare skin on bare skin, but for the most part the two bathed like they did everything else. 

He climbs in and presses into the space Geralt has left for him, sighing as the water warmed his aching muscle. "I might cry Geralt. How popular do you think a song about a bath would be?"

"Not very."

"No, but it would be straight from the heart." He watches the water move around him and let's it remind him that he's real. "Would you have paid a hundred if I wasn't here?"

"I don't have a hundred coins. At least, not all the same currency." The water ripples as the man rubs at his visibly grimey skin "I would have immediately left to camp if you didn't need a warm nights sleep. So. I suppose I would have used Axii."

"You hate using axii."

"You needed a bed."

Something he had forgotten in their months apart is how safe he felt around Geralt. To a fault, sometimes. There were distinctly more occasions where Jaskier had let his hubris get the better of him when around the witcher compared to when he travelled alone; purely because Jaskier just forgets how to filter his thoughts before letting them dribble out. For one, the man is fiercely built, and having been punched in the stomach by him and more so knowing he had been holding back, Jaskier is certain in Geralt's abilities to keep him an arms length from violence- if he so chooses. More importantly, while Jaskier couldn't decide if he'd call the witcher a kind man, he was so incredibly good natured it sometimes made him feel guilty, but more often it made him feel safe.

Jaskier had been a greedy child and never quite grew out of it, refused to, as it was tied closely with his survival. If he had been satiable, he would either have died by now for lack of spite fed bullheadedness, or worse, be currently fulfilling his role of nobility beside a wife he hadn't chosen and family he still sometimes had nightmares about. His greed carried him to oxenfurt, up the mountain in Posada, into courts and into bedrooms. His greed let him insist a free meal come with his performances at inns and for that he had yet to be malnourished. 

He was greedy in the way Yennefer was. She said she wanted everything and Jaskier believed her. 

Geralt wasn't. 

It was so fucking ironic, because if you were to ask a stranger which one of them lacked self preservation, they would hands down always point to Jaskier. Yet, where Jaskier rolled his eyes at the innkeep and demanded a fair price, Geralt would have gone to sleep in the woods again. That only changed once somebody else was added to the equation. Because Geralt will sacrifice himself every day until it somehow takes him, and the only way to stop him is to make another's survival depend on him. And then, he'll still suffer some more. 

So Jaskier felt safe around him, in a way he doesn't feel for anybody else, and when they're together, he makes sure to be a little bit more greedy on Geralt's behalf.

"You know you don't have to make yourself uncomfortable on my behalf. In Fact. I'd go further and suggest you should never do so." 

Geralt grunts "Well it didn't come to that, thanks to you."

"Lord, what day is it? Compliment the bard day? Do you have fever?"

"I just-" he huffs in frustration and Jaskier suddenly feels a little bad for making fun "I used to get turned away from almost every inn I tried, with you that changed. It was still better even after you left, because of your song." 

"Oh." 

"I guess i'm trying to thank you."

"I can see that. But I must admit I don't quite deserve it. You can't thank me for a roof over your head when it was over mine too. And toss a coin…" he looks straight ahead of him, at the peeling wall paint "I did that because you didn't throw bread at me. Also, I wanted to be famous."

"Thank you, Jaskier." 

He felt like he could burst. 

"Ah. Thank you, Geralt. For not throwing bread."

"Didn't have any."

Jaskier let's out an embarrassing snort of a laugh before covering his mouth and giggling into it. Beside him, Geralt is smiling vaguely but genuinely, even chuckling slightly.

"Honestly." He shakes his head, laughter still shaping his lips "I bet if you didn't have all this witcher business you would have had s real chance at becoming a jester, sir."

"M' better with inside jokes."

"And puns"

"And puns. Kings hate puns."

Jaskier beams, delighted "I adore that I know you're saying that from experience. You are the only man I know who would make a bloody pun to a king- aside from myself perhaps." 

The water hasn't cooled down in the slightest, Geralt must have cast igni while he wasn't looking. 

The witcher looks completely at ease, almost as peaceful as when he sleeps and isn't forced to endure a nightmare. The lulled, lopsided hint of a smile gracing his lips is not unlike the face of a cat sunbathing by a window. Jaskier wonders if Geralt feels safe with him, too.

**

When Jaskier see's the silhouette of Novigrad against the backdrop of storm clouds, he lets out a sigh which comes out muddled as a whine. 

It's not that he no longer liked Novigrad, in fact, he had only grown appreciation of it in the months he spent settled down there. It was just that he still felt like he knew the city like the back of his hand, and he hardly felt excited at the prospect of staring at his hand. Being there with Geralt made it simultaneously worse and better. Seeing things with Geralt always brought a fresh new perspective that he found difficult to tap into otherwise. Of course it did, Geralt was his muse. However, the tall buildings only served as a reminder that the other was due to leave him once more.

They hadn't discussed it really, what they were going to do once the curse was lifted, but Jaskier imagines they would repeat their argument from months gone like a ritual and then Geralt will run away. He will consider following regardless of whether or not he's wanted, but ultimately reside himself to a lonely, miserable fate. Or something like that. He had been trying not to think about it. 

At least now he has more material to write about and momentarily eat his time. 

Really, Geralt had been treating him kindly, and that had been scaring him a little. It's not that Geralt is usually particularly cruel to him, otherwise he wouldn't have fallen for the man, but suddenly he was noticing, potentially imagining, ways Geralt was going out of his way for Jaskier. Like yesterday, he had honey glazed the rabbit he had caught for their dinner which he only ever did if Jaskier begged him to- it was a waste of his potion ingredients, apparently. Then there had been when they had stumbled across a performer and Geralt stopped to let Jaskier watch. All little things, little things that got heavier and heavier each time a new one was added. It felt like his feelings were being toyed with. Geralt was being kind to him with full knowledge that he was going to leave him. 

"You know where your body will be?" Geralt pulls him out of his thoughts. He was trailing behind the other lazily, near glaring at the skyline

He scoffs "Do i-? It'll be in my house Geralt."

"You have a house?" 

"Well, no. I occupy it while its actual owner wanders the land in search of himself or… something. I wasn't fully paying attention, had a cock in my throat when he was telling me. But don't worry, he said he'd be gone a year."

Geralt furrows his eyebrows "You're...something."

"Charmed you finally noticed."

Geralt urges him to take the lead once they're through the slums, which had grown slippery from people tracking mud over stone. He has to hold himself back from waving to familiar faces in the street, eventually he just keeps his eyes on the floor so that the urge doesn't even strike him.

The rain feels disconnected, the weight of the droplets registering against his skin but not the cool wetness that comes from it. He's completely dry walking through a storm and it's weird. He hates that he can't wave to people and he hates that he can't fall victim to the rain.

They eventually stop in front of his home, an end house painted white and fit with a balcony.

"Spare key should be under the plant pot."

Geralt throws him an unimpressed glance, but follows instruction to find the key. The plant pot scrapes noisily against the stone, and when moved leaves a perfect circle of dry path before rain quickly seeks to fill it in.

The door unlocks with a satisfying click, and the two step inside quickly. It feels, quite hysterically, like the times Jaskier would bring home bed partners, and a part of him wants to offer Geralt a cup of tea. He doesn't, because he's busy sulking, but the witcher doesn't seem too bothered.

The house had been decorated by the lord who quite potentially saw Jaskier as his lover. Thankfully the man had decent taste despite being enough of an arrogant prick for Jaskier to not feel guilty for using him. Dark tinted wood work took up most of the space, accented with deep reds in the form of cushions, rugs, blankets. There was a fireplace by the far corner of the room, which Jaskier would often spend balled up next to whenever he drank enough wine to make him tipsy. A frequent occurrence. There was a wine cellar downstairs.

"I assume I'm upstairs." He says glumly as Geralt peels out of his perfectly soaked cloak "In my room. First door on the right."

The staircase is a spiral, something Jaskier initially adored but grew to hate once he had to climb it drunk. He watches Geralt silently climb the thing, having to bow his head to avoid hitting it on the tightly coiled steps, and swallows the hesitation he has over seeing his body without the help of a mirror. He's been dreading that, a secondary dread to being abandoned, but persistent through that was a morbid curiosity. How accurate was his reflection? Will his body look dead without his being there to breathe life into it? He supposed it would feel like this whole experience had, ghostly. 

Upstairs, Geralt has stopped in the doorway of his bedroom.

"Um. Geralt?"

"You aren't here."

He blinks, the dread he held in his stomach flipping into something new entirely "what do you mean I'm not there I must be! This is where I was-" Geralt steps inside the room properly and Jaskier is suddenly able to see his bed, empty and unmade "-oh sweet Melitite."

Geralt hums unhelpfully, looking around the room like he does when he's tracking. 

Trying to curb the panic growing in his gut -mingling with every other negative emotion he was currently having to deal with- Jaskier stomps forward and drapes himself on his desk chair, ignoring how much more uncomfortable it is when he can't sink into its cushion. There's a distinct need to deal with this by blabbering, the urge sits on the tip of his tongue. When he was younger, he didn't know how to curb his incessant need to speak, it was one of the only things that made him feel better in situations like this, speaking, and sometimes feeling better now came before not worsening the situation. He would speak, and the tension in his head would sooth just slightly, it felt like slowly exhaling after holding in breath for too long, it felt like if he didn't he might die. That was when he was younger, though, and had yet to come to terms with certain things, and those things lived in his mind and screamed if he let them. Now, he knows how to bite his tongue, because if he doesn't Geralt will be distracted, where the man is currently trying to solve the thing that's making him so panicky in the first place. 

The witcher is sniffing, which almost manages to draw a laugh out of Jaskier. He sometimes looks like a tracking hound, nose in the air, methodically following whatever scent he catches in a stalk, ready to pounce. A look of recognition flashes in the man's eyes before he sniffs again, glancing in Jaskiers direction.

"What? Smell blood or something?" He hadn't meant to say the second bit, but it came out as he thought it. When Geralt does this, it's so often blood he smells.

His, perhaps overly pessimistic, comment causes Geralt to frown at him "No. You. Recent smell." 

"Of course you smell me you daft git, I'm right here." He gestures to himself, slouching back as he does.

Geralt audibly sighs and goes back to sniffing, which is just as helpful to Jaskier as Jaskier had been to him, so he lets it slide and Bites down on his knuckle before he says something else. His fingertips suddenly feel a little raw, which is something he's used to by now but never fails to confuse him. Maybe it was just a side effect of having played the lute for so long, some sort of phantom pain from his body simply expecting it to be there. 

"Sorry." He mutters over his knuckle "You aren't daft. Or a git. I'm just stressed."

"It's okay." Geralt responds, before smelling his bed sheets and-

Perhaps Jaskier isn't the most hygenic man. Of course he bathes regularly and only wears the same clothes repeatedly without wash if he absolutely has to. The idea of stinking isn't one he particularly enjoys, nor is it useful when it comes to bedding a partner. When it came to less aesthetic forms of hygiene though, he's a little less diligent about it. For example, One of his first tasks he set for himself once he had moved into this house was buying as many plates, bowls and combinations of cutlery as he could so that he didn't need to wash the dishes for days at a time. Another, there were thick layers of dust atop anything in this house that wasn't at or below eye level. His bed sheets, the sheets Geralt had just pressed into his face and inhaled like he had just been held underwater, had not been washed since he first moved in. They had also been subject to many trysts, and more commonly, solo activities. 

A part of him affectionately blames Geralt a little bit for his lack of cleanliness, the man wears the same armour until it needs fixing, which is less frequently than it should be.

He pulls his face and goes a little pink. "I cannot believe you just did that." He stutters "Geralt that- okay look I know you're judging me right now but human noses are a lot less prone to sniffing out whatever you just got a lung full of. Oh gods please don't tell me how disgusted you are I can't bear to hear it." 

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him, blanket still held close to his face, a slightly amused smile on his lips along with the softest rose over his cheeks. "You've laid here within the day."

Heart fluttering in his chest, or whatever feels like his heart in his not-chest, Jaskier swallows thickly "How do you know that?"

"I told you. I can smell you." The blanket falls from his hand.

"And I reminded you you're probably just smelling me. Here."

"You don't have your body, Jaskier."

Oh. Right.

Why hadn't that occurred to him? Of course he doesn't have a scent, if he did he would be quite royally fucked, given how he hasn't changed clothes in weeks. Frankly, Jaskier would smell vile if he smelt of anything, probably too gross for his eager nosed travel companion to even stomach. Yet, there was something strange about it, being reminded that by Geralt. 

"You.. haven't been able to smell me."

"No."

"Bet that's been weird for you."

"Very." Geralt confirms, and before Jaskier can ask for more because he so desperately wants to pinpoint why this all suddenly feels vulnerable, he quickly continues "but I smell you here. Recently. Which means I'll be able to track you to wherever you've been-" he pauses, visibly thinking "Wherever you've gone."

Nodding, Jaskier feels a slight relief from the dread "I've not felt any pain like Yennefer said I would if somebody was to harm me. Well. Mostly none."

"Mostly?"

"Nothing serious." He specifies quickly "Nothing a kidnapper would do as torture or anything like that. Just this odd burn by my calluses every now and again as if I've just performed on my lute. My…. My lute!" 

Rather quickly he realises that his lute is not where it should be, in its case stood beside the door. There isn't even a case there. It's not like his lute isn't valuable, in fact he's had plenty of offers to take it off his hands by historians since he had received it at eighteen, but it doesn't make sense that it's the only valuable thing in the room that's been taken.

Pointing at where it should be, Jaskier tries to explain that it should be there Geralt. "Why would somebody break in- there aren't any bloody signs of a break in now that I think- where was I? Oh yes. Why would they kidnap me and take my lute Geralt? Oh dear. Do you think I've got some sort of… deranged stalker who wants to force me to play for them? They're going to be incredibly disappointed."

"Calm down, Jaskier."

"I can't! I don't feel pain yet but I'm sure when I do it'll be all sorts of awful, even more so because I can't see where it's come from. They could stab me in the gut and I won't be able to see how much I'm bleeding out." 

"I won't let that happen. You're going to be okay. You trust me, don't you?"

There it was again. The new brand of kindness. 

Not to say Geralt wouldn't have comforted him though panic in the past, he would, and has, but with it came a level of frustration that served to remind Jaskier of how much of an inconvenience he was. Never, in all their years together, has Geralt asked Jaskier if he trusted him. Perhaps the man just assumed it to be true until now, maybe their falling out made it perfectly feasible that Jaskiers trust had broken and shattered like glass. 

Most new of all was the look on the others face. Soft, so clearly concerned and somewhere in his eyes, desperate. Begging.

Jaskier inhales, tears welling up in his eyes "I trust you Geralt." He says, and then "Please know that. I trust you more than anything."

They look at eachother. Geralt opens his mouth to say something after a moment, but is interrupted by the noise of the front door opening downstairs.

Jaskier springs to his feet, feeling pathetic as he wipes away tears clumsily "Oh shit they're returning to the scene of the crime." He stands behind Geralt, peering over the man's shoulder, as if the intruder would be able to see him out in the open.

The sound of footsteps echoes in from the hall as somebody climbs the stairs. After what feels like forever, but must have just been seconds, there's a silhouette in the doorway.

"Jaskier?" He hears Geralt say before he can work out the person's face.

"Geralt?" He hears his own voice respond "what the fuck are you doing here?"

**

Jaskier had a lot of faith in Yennefer, despite their differences, to the point where he was shocked to his core when it turned out she was actually, for once in her life, wrong. His body was not peacefully sleeping. His body, along with a version of himself who was not aware he was cursed in the first place, had been living his life in Novigrad as normal this whole time, and he was quite unhappy that Geralt had broken into his house and accused him of behind a doppler for a reason he refused explain. A quick silver coin check proved he was not in fact a doppler, and both Geralt and his invisible bard stood aghast that Yennefer could be wrong.

He was still quite angry at Geralt, actually, a lot more angry than Jaskier remembered being. He pointed a finger and poked Geralt directly in the chest, hard, accusing him of being an uncaring twat and Jaskier audibly gasped at himself. Then he had to stifle a chuckle. 

They ended up being ushered to a local in Jaskier played at often, despite there being a perfectly usable guest room back at his house so- wow, he was very angry. Jaskier wasn't aware of how close to forgiving Geralt he was until now, until he saw himself hurt and silently begging for an explanation he wouldn't get. There was no blaming Geralt for not explaining himself to the other, there was no reasonable explanation as to why he was standing in the man's bedroom and invisible Jaskier had whispered to him to keep quiet about his existence. It made him uncomfortable seeing himself like this, he wanted at least that version of him to be naive to it all. Thankfully Geralt was good at being quiet. 

His physical self left them in the inn room after sighing loudly and stating "I don't know why I expected anything better from you Geralt."

Then, the Jaskier who couldn't leave said "Well he desperately needs to get laid." To try to lighten the mood.

It doesn't work. 

Geralt loudly groans and falls back onto the room's bed. 

"I suppose Yennefer did say probably and not definitely when she said I'd be asleep, so we can't really blame her when we should have been preparing for this possibility." Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed "really though, she could have warned me. That was… uncomfortable. I'm glad at least that he.. I? We?... I haven't been kidnapped. You should be glad of it too."

"I am glad."

"Try to bloody show it then." The bed dips under him as he twists to hover over Geralt, arms either side of the man's head "Show you're glad I'm not in danger." 

The encaptivating yellow of Geralt's eyes is so easy to get lost in, especially when the man looks up at him with such a rare softness. he wonders idly, taking a lock of Geralt's strewn out hair between his thumb and forefinger and rolling it for the sensation, if Geralt can see the reflection of his own eyes in the blue of Jaskiers. It would look like a clear morning, Geralt the sun, him the sky.

"I'm glad you're not in danger." Geralt reaffirms, resting a grounding hand on Jaskiers lap "It was just a lot. I've… you've been angry around me before. But not like that.. not…"

"At you?" He supplies.

Geralt nods "At me."

"Well he.. I.. fuck that's confusing. He wasn't shocked out of his anger by being teleported days away from his home like I was." 

An ache is beginning to build in his arms from holding up his weight, so he lowers himself so that his chest to chest with the other man, who moves his hand from Jaskiers thigh to his mid back. He looks up at Geralt through his eyelashes, but the man is now looking up at the ceiling instead of his face.

"Are you angry at me?" 

Jaskier blinks, he wouldn't normally have to ask that, he would normally smell it.

Ah. That's where the vulnerability came from. Geralt can no longer read Jaskier as he usually would, he's been improvising this whole time and- oddly doing a better job at it. 

He supposes it makes sense. With the ability to sense every big change of the bard's mood, there were less egg shells for Geralt to walk around, he would decide himself whether he could push something further or if he needed to back down. Now, Geralt was never good at body language, so he was frankly grasping at straws to ensure he doesn't fuck up with Jaskier. 

It makes him smile, full of affection "A bit, yes. You haven't apologised."

"Not good at that."

"I know. But sometimes we take that extra step for people we care about… it's fine if I'm not.. that to you, but it doesn't stop me wanting to be. To be somebody you will make yourself briefly uncomfortable for." He twirls the white hair around his finger "No more than that though. I already told you I don't want you doing things like casting Axii for me."

It's so nice to be touched properly after weeks of stealing touches. 

"I.. don't think I understand the difference."

Jaskier frowns "Apologising would make you feel just as uncomfortable as casting axii?"

"You'll want to come with me again if I apologise."

"I already do."

"Fuck."

He stays silent for a while, feeling the imprint of the heavy hand on his back, how it felt so much more real than anything else he could touch in this state. He felt warmth from it, seeping in through his doublet to his skin. 

This is one of those moments he wants to cling to, despite the frustration in his gut from being told Geralt still doesn't want him following. Certain moments in time just have a distinct niceness to them, and this is one of them. The slowness of their hearts, how he can hear Geralts in his chest much like he can always hear Jaskiers at all times, how relaxed they are compared to moments previous. He wants to immortalise it by weaving words through it, follilize how he feels in poetry, encapsulate it all in the amber of Geralt's eyes.

"I feel." Jaskier starts, a lifeline to the man who's clearly trying "I feel, now, as if you never wanted me by your side."

The weight of Geralt's hand shifts as it grabs at the fabric of his doublet "No. That's not what I said."

"You didn't not say it."

"I just. Never seeing you again was the better option to seeing you die." 

"Ah." 

Now he thinks about it, in a way that isn't soaked in abandonment, Geralt had been saying that the whole time. That he wouldn't be safe beside him. He just thought that was an excuse, because the man had enough of a heart to spare his feelings. Even Geralt, bringer of bad news, couldn't tell somebody who adored him 'I can't stand your presence.' But no, Geralt hadn't said that because it wasn't true, he had just wanted Jaskier to be safe.

It's been such a long time since he's felt truly wanted. Hed had glimpses throughout his years, though his brief partners, Virginia used to look at him like he had hung the moon. Those glimpses always felt fragile though, and they always ended up shattering when Jaskier showed he wasnt worth wanting. Geralt has seen all of that and more, and just wants to keep him safe.

It feels like being hugged. It feels like an apology.

"Oh, Geralt." He sighs into the other's chest.

"Hm?"

"No, I'm not angry at you."

Geralt's hand relaxes on his back again "I'm glad."

"Me too."

The rain against the window of the inn is soothing, along with the slow crackle of the fire and the soft warmth in the room.

"Tomorrow we should work out what object is involved in the curse. Maybe your physical self will have an idea."

Jaskier crinkles his nose "Do we have to go to him? It's Frankly unsettling, and a little bit miserable with the state he's in. God Geralt you could see on his face that he wanted to just hug you the moment you were close enough but he didn't because he was being a petty bastard."

"He is you."

"I'm a petty bastard, Geralt!"

"You wanted to hug me?" Geralt asks, rubbing circles on the small of Jaskiers back, who almost purrs in response.

"He wanted to hug you. I am hugging you."

"You're laying on me."

"Oh you rude bastard, come here then." 

He pushes his arms under Geralt's back and tries to pull the man into an embrace. For a moment it seems fruitless, but then there's an amused huff and Geralt lets himself be pulled onto his side and wraps his own arms around Jaskier. They lay holding each other, looking at each other's faces.

"Is this better?"

Geralt hums, closing his eyes and pulling the blanket over them both. His breathing is slow and deep as if he's on the brink of sleep, so Jaskier rolls his eyes and tucks himself against the man's chest to get comfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> Ah to be an invisible bard 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Find me on tumblr @cyberboredom, until chapter 2!


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